A Twist
by Ash M. Knight
Summary: Bruce Wayne is the Joker's psychologist at Arkham. How will he handle his mentally ill patient? Batman/Joker Slash.


Something about the creaking sounds of the doors and windows and bars of Arkham Asylum made their resident psychologist nauseous. His shiny new shoes – purchased to distract him from the grit and grime of the facility – squeaked with each step, drawing attention to him as he passed cell after cell on his way to meet a patient. The sound of something new and clean was foreign to the ears of those behind the bars. The Armani suit did not exactly help blend in, either. Even the correctional officers seemed to reek of the place. No one there was truly clean – not even psychologist Bruce Wayne, no matter how hard he tried to cover up his involvement with the asylum.

It wasn't that he didn't want the money the was produced by his father's company and estate – he indulged in it regularly. It was simply that the business profession was one of too many lies and too much deceit for him to stomach – at least on a daily basis. He had handed most of the company over to Lucius Fox, who handled his money – and his recreational requests – with great care. With his father's life-long work in good hands, he was free to make his own choices, without having to worry about whether or not he could feed himself at the end of the day.

What he had chosen to do was to get his doctorate in psychology. How he'd ended up working at Arkham Asylum, he wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was the patients he would have encountered doing private practice in some well-to-do office downtown. He didn't want to hear housewives cry about how terrible it was to wash the dishes each day and how oppressive their husbands and children were. He wanted to help people who were desperate – people who had real, serious problems. However he got there – as bold as the irony was, considering his night-time occupation – he was there, and he had responsibilities to take care of.

On that particular occasion, he had been called in to work around three in the morning to assist with a new arrival. That patient had threatened to kill themselves and was apparently his hysterics. By the time Doctor Wayne arrived, his head was bloody from its battle with the stone walls, and he was locked up tightly in a padded cell. The doctor was not briefed further, and the guards simply mumbled, "Good luck," under their breaths as they opened the door and chained the patient up. He was dragged to a holding cell with a table, where the guards cuffed him in numerous locations to the bench. Bruce, after giving the guards a look of uncertainty and receiving no look of sympathy in return, boldly entered the cell, completely unarmed, without even knowing the name of the man at the table before him.

The prisoner was crying – rather dramatically – with his face laying on his arms, faced down towards the tabletop. Bruce could only see his curly green-blonde locks and a few tattoos on his arms as he approached the table and bravely sat down.

"My name is Bruce," he began. "I'm here to talk to you and see if there's anything I can do that will make you fell better. Sometimes, just talking about the thing that's hurting you can be enough to ease the pain a little. Would you like to talk to me?" Although the words were clearly genuine, they sounded forced and rehearsed, and even the speaker could hear it as the sound sputtered out from between his rosy, privileged lips. He cleared his throat to clear his mind of the sound, twisting his hands together and nervously pulling at his diamond cuff-links.

Before the doctor could urge his patient to speak and respond to his question, the man began to cackle – something shrill and inhuman that cause a volt of shivers to pour down Bruce's spine. To his horror, the man lifted his head and showed his disfigured and bloody face. Before, in the patient's temporary padded cell, there was hardly any light, and Bruce was unable to see the face of his newest client. Now, in the bright, unnatural light, he saw more than he wanted to. The man laughter grew laughter as he lurched across the table and grabbed his new doctor by the collar of his expensive shirt. Flying across the table, the well-dressed young man was working on figuring out just how the villain had been able to slip the cuffs. Before he could discover the answer, the Joker – for that was who Bruce had determined the man to be just moments before – lifted a knife to his throat, still bellowing with laughter.

"Now listen here," he cackled towards the door where guards were huddling around and rushing to burst the steel door open. "Anybody takes another step forward, and this handsome young man here is going to get it right in the jugular. And being Gotham's most wealthy and influential bachelor – even if he does have a shitty job – you wouldn't want that on your hands, now would you, officers? After all, then they'd shut down the asylum, deeming it "unsafe," and you all would be out of a job!" They stared intently, all of them panting like wild dogs, bewildered and confused, but said nothing. "You're going to let me and Mr. Wayne here walk right out the front door. And you're not just going to do that because he's rich and pretty and powerful. You're going to do it because if you don't, I'm going to kill Commissioner Gordon's children, who are currently being held hostage somewhere in the city. You let us go, I tell you where to find them. You don't, they... well... let's just say, there's only so much air that you can fit in a little metal box, all right? Now, back the fuck up! You heard me. BACK THE FUCK UP."

As if the irony wasn't painful enough that the Batman actually worked at Arkham Asylum trying to rehabilitate the very people he imprisoned there, he was now being taken hostage by the one villain he hated more than anything else in the world. The bastard had caught him in his one weak moment. And he didn't even know who he really was! It was all too much for him to bear, and his frustration was so high that he was unprepared, he fainted directly into the arms of his captor. They did, indeed, leave relatively safely out the front door, and the location of each of Commissioner Gordon's children was revealed to the officers. They were found, safe and sound, and returned to their parents. Bruce, however, knew none of this, as he didn't wake up for a few hours later. At that point, all he knew was the was tired – rather tightly, at that – to a metal chair in a broken-down, near-empty warehouse. He felt stupid for not knowing where exactly, even though knowing his location wouldn't really help him at that point.

When his eyes cleared, he saw the figure of the Joker, dressed like Harley Quinn. He blinked a few times, just to be sure. Bruce tried to stay calm and protect his identity, but he couldn't help but stare in awe. Eighty-five percent of his ass was hanging out from under the ridiculously short and colorful skirt. "You look ridiculous," he muttered.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne, don't be shy. You know you like it," he giggled, sitting down on his lap and wiggling in ways Bruce had only ever dreamed of. People don't actually do that, do they? He wondered. By the time the Joker turned around to face him, he was on to his next question. How the fuck am I going to get out of this?

This Joker slid his hands up and down the Armani suit and smiled at Bruce. "You rich boys are very pretty, you know. I should have thought of this sooner." There was an awkward moment of silence where Bruce could hear his heartbeat – one where he thought, for just a moment, that the Joker recognized his face, his chin, as the one under the Batman mask. But the Joker said nothing. He just stared.

"What do you want with me?" Bruce asked, as calmly as possible, but the Joker only laughed.

"You? Why, Bruce, do use your head. I know you rich boys aren't very intelligent, but there must be some mass in the attractive head of yours. I'm going to tell the city – well, you are, anyway – through the television, that if the Batman doesn't kill one small child by midnight, showing the whole world what a scum-bag he really is on the inside, I'm going to kill you AND ten children. Children who belong to COPS, Mr. Wayne. Now, some orphan doesn't mean a whole lot when you get right down to it, but a cop's child? Now THAT, Mr. Wayne. That's something truly shocking. Plus... you, of course. You die too."

"Why me?"

"You're the symbol of everything Gotham is. Wealth. Greed. Sex. Obsession with personal image. Parties. Drugs. Power. Everything disgusting and corrupt. Let's be honest here, dear. I hope I get to carve you up and... well... take advantage of you. But I'm a man of my word. That won't happen unless good old Batty doesn't follow through. I don't think he has the guts to take one for the team, you know? But who knows? I guess we'll see if he can step up to the plate to save the poor, innocent children or not. And you. Besides... I've a bone to pick with the Batman, and he deserves a test of his honor. I want to see how loyal a desperate bat really is to his 'code.'"


End file.
